


father, forgive me

by cergia



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Heavy Angst, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28451154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cergia/pseuds/cergia
Summary: he remembers being a little boy, aware and in awe of the world around him.he remembers wanting to help.he remembers wanting power.he remembers the disappointment raking his father's face. . .but he also remembers the disappointment he felt in knowing that his father was against him.[in which quackity is the villain of this story]
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Sam | Awesamdude
Comments: 2
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

To say that Sam’s used to getting visitors is an overstatement. 

He lives far from the Dream SMP and even farther from the shitshow that is _L’Manberg_. The most the man gets out of visitors— particularly _unannounced_ — is that of his son, who, recently, has made it explicitly clear that he his uninterested in venturing out from the from the city, much less to his father’s quaint mountainside home. 

All of this is to say that when Sam returns home from a day long expedition of mining, he is surprised to find a man hunched over next to the front door of his house, clad in armor and drawing shapes in the dirt with his sword. 

“Dream,” he greets, swallowing thickly as he steps forward hesitantly, his fingers clenching tightly around the fabric of his satchel thrown over his shoulder carelessly. “to what do I owe the pleasure?” 

The man glances up, his green eyes sharp and narrowed as he rakes over Sam’s dirtied form. His arm visibly stiffens and tightens around the handle of his sword before he sheathes it. 

“Sam,” Dream states, his lips curling into a frown. “Let us beat around the pleasantries, yeah?” 

Sam’s eyebrows raise at this. “Well, I’m not quite sure what we’d talk about if not for the pleasantries, Dream.” He smiles, a sarcastic undertone warping around his words. Dream’s frown only deepens and Sam stalks forward, setting his satchel down near the front door. Turning, he faces the other man. 

“Weather been good in L’Manberg? What about—” 

“ _Enough_!” Dream hisses angrily. His arm shoots out quickly and Sam barely has enough time to react before the other man’s fingers are curled tightly around the collar of his hoodie, lifting him two inches above the ground. “You and I are going to have a discussion. _Open the door_.” Smiling sinisterly, he adds, “Or your supplies and Fran are going straight to the lava.” 

“Well, I _would_ open the door if you’d—” Sighing, Sam cuts himself off, closing his eyes. _It isn’t worth it_. “Just let me down.” 

“Quite honestly, I’m not a fan of the way you presented yourself out there, Dream. I have designated this a “ _violence-free zone_ ”, you know, and you completely went against that.” Sam states matter-of-factly as he sets his satchel down on a wooden dining table before pulling out a chair, motioning for the other man to take a seat opposite of him. 

“I can’t really imagine you came all this way just to threaten me, Dream, so enough with this, albeit _blissful_ , _uncomfortable_ silence.” Sam states after a few moments. “Unless. . . this is about the Manberg war? Which I was neutral throughout, might I add.” 

At that, Dream flinches. It’s small, like that of a cricket— it’s _tiny_ , **_tiny_** , ~~**_tiny_**~~ , and almost goes unnoticed, but alas, you do— you _do_ notice, and despite its size, you go around it, despite the fact that it will be eaten up later on as the life cycle continues its course. Except, it’s nothing like a cricket, and Sam holds onto the flinch, because it’s _Dream_ , and if there’s one thing Dream doesn’t do is show _weakness._

“Dream. . .” Sam’s tone is rough now and there’s a warning within the word. “What’s going on?” 

“You were neutral.” Dream agrees, which feels like it should be a good thing— after all, he _isn’t_ getting accused of treason in a war that happened months ago. . . but Dream’s face is grim and Sam can’t ignore the way his heart beats just a _little_ faster. “ _You_ were neutral,” he repeats, lifting his head. “but you know who wasn’t.” 

At that, Sam’s mouth goes dry. “My son. . .” 

“Quackity, in the middle of the war, switched sides and proclaimed his hatred for Schlatt. This, on Schlatt’s terms, could be considered treason.” 

Sam inhales, focusing his gaze on Dream’s firm expression. Narrowing his eyes, Sam clasps his hands together, ignoring the _disgusting_ sweat that clings to his palms. “ _Schlatt_ is _dead_.” 

“Yes,” Dream admits. “but Tubbo is not. Under Tubbo’s administration, Tommy has been exiled.” Sam exhales sharply. “With his history and blatant disregard for current happenings, I have reason to believe that Quackity is currently going against not only what Tubbo has said, but what _I’ve_ said.” 

“You wouldn’t come to my home just for this Dream. If that was it, you would’ve simply exiled Quackity alongside Tommy or jailed him yourself, regardless of my stance.” Sam’s words are sharp and angry and all he can feel is the rush of his blood— the _heat_ radiating off of his pale skin. “So, Dream, I’ll ask you again— why are you _really_ here?” 

“Your son, in only the past few days, has built a city, destroyed the King’s castle, and sought out Technoblade to _kill_ him.” 

Sam’s mind whirls and he stands abruptly, the force sending his chair flying into a wooden countertop. Dream jumps up, taking on a defensive stance, hand on the hilt of his sword, but Sam pays him no mind. _Kill_ , **_kill_** , ~~**_kill_**~~ — kill? _His_ son? The same boy who refused to leave a pond in the dead of winter until Sam allowed him to bring home _ten_ ducks that were going to freeze? The same boy who acted as Tubbo and Tommy’s elder brother, despite being a little _wimp_ himself? The same boy who ran for the L’Manberg election in hopes of bettering the country and _helping_ its people? 

“You’re wrong.” Sam holds himself up on the edge of the table. The wood feels like it’s digging into his skin— he feels like he can’t _breathe_. “You are _wrong_ ; he would never.” Sam meets Dream’s hard eyes with a challenge. 

“You said it yourself, Sam,” He mocks, the corners of his lips turning up into a grin. “ _I wouldn’t come all this way just to_ ** _lie_**.” 

“So, what the _hell_ do you want me to do, Dream? Drag him home by his ear and scream at him until he’s deaf? He’s not a child anymore.” Sam throws his hands up in the air in frustration. 

“No, but he trusts you.” It’s a simple sentence, really, and such a proclamation would make any other’s heart swell with mirth— but Sam senses the underlying meaning and he bristles, vomit rising in his throat. 

“You want me to be another _Punz_ ?” He snarls, pushing back the bile that rises threateningly. “A spy sent after my own _son_?” 

Dream shrugs, leaning against the wall with indifference. “Well, Sam, it’s either that. . .” He drawls, brandishing his sword, raising it high above his head to allow the light to hit it in every direction. It’s sharp, wild, and deadly— and Sam blanches at the thought of that going through his son’s chest. “Or I allow him to keep racking up all of these negative points! _Except,_ his fate won’t be as kind as Tommy’s.” 

And with that, Dream sheathes his sword and thrusts his hands into his pocket as he walks calmly towards the door. Throwing it open, he cocks his head back, “I trust you’ll make the right decision, Sam.” With a wink and a sharp smile, he’s gone, and the only sound to swirl into Sam’s ears is that of his heavy breathing. 

“God. . . I need a drink.” 


	2. ii.

Quackity is having a piss-poor week. 

Long ago, when he was a child living in the comfort of his father’s quaint, cobblestone home up in the mountains, piss-poor weeks consisted of a scraped knee and a caring father to bandage him up all while wiping away his tears with a bright smile and cuddles to follow afterwards. They did not, however, consist of _building an entire nation and having it be destroyed only days later_. 

They also did not include getting his ass _kicked_ by a man he spent months preparing to go against— this time, though, his wounds would go uncared for, with only thin bandages wrapped around his arms and neck and a push along the way. 

Maybe it was Schlatt’s revenge beyond the grave— having every little thing ripped out from under him— things he spent _planning_ , **_planning_** , and planning for since beyond the former President’s death. Or, maybe, _just maybe_ , his father was right— he was much too _brash_ , _too naïve_ to think that the undefeated Technoblade would fall to his knees with just an _anvil_. 

Letting out a bitter laugh, Quackity threw his head back in mirth and sank into his chair. Scattered across the ceiling— against the _walls_ — lay crooked posters of the man himself. He’s bloodied; _defeated_ — it poses a statement, or, at least, it _was_ , until the plan was swayed and instead of a _pig_ mimicking the bruised and beaten form on the posters, it was _Quackity_. 

Quackity, the boy with messy brown hair and bright brown eyes. The boy who, when given the opportunity to do so by his father, would run about the DreamSMP, wreaking havoc upon the small town, much to the annoyance of the citizens residing there who just _couldn’t_ bring themselves to be angry with him. The boy who sat with Tommy and Wilbur, listening to the older boy spew about his dreams of building a country with _beautiful_ cobblestone buildings that would reflect greatly off of the sunlight. The boy who spent countless hours with Dream whilst his father was away gathering materials, reading off scrolls with the older boy cheerfully. In turn, Dream would ruffle his hair with a bright smile etched onto his face, expelling broken promises of ice cream and movies. 

But that boy was long gone now, and in his place stood a tall, scrawny young man, the once beaming light stitched into his orbs long gone— instead replaced with a power-hungry glint, all too similar to _Schlatt’s_. This boy had blood staining his skin, intertwining itself within his DNA. This boy was a monster in the carcass of his younger self— an almost carbon copy of his predecessor ~~_with sharp, bloody horns and a wicked grin_. ~~

Except, despite their similarities, Quackity was different to Schlatt in a variety of ways. For one, the former President was not _cocky_ — he was _calm_ and _calculated_ despite his external appearance. The man never moved without analyzing his opponents first, and when the opportunity came, when they were at their _absolute_ weakest, he struck their most fragile point. 

Quackity was _arrogant_. He made a _plan_ — a plan conspired with a group that contributed input that he _shot down_ because he _swore_ his plan would work; instead, it cost him a life. He was too _arrogant_ , too _brash_ , too _annoying_ — **_too much._** He was the _laughing stock_ , the man who couldn’t even defeat _Technoblade_ at his _weakest_ . He was the one who couldn’t even take on _Schlatt_ , despite being his righthand man, all the while he pushed his friends and family away, walking on the path of darkness alongside a _dying_ man. 

Sighing, Quackity pushed his chair forward, allowing it to slam against the ground from its earlier position on two legs. He couldn’t see himself, but he was sure he looked _pitiful_. Buried within his hair was dirt and grime, making the strands stick together in large clumps. This is not at all helped by the sweat that rolls down his face and the blood that soaks through the white plaster around his arm. If _Schlatt_ were here, and they were still in their large castle residing in _Manberg_ , he was sure the man would call him _pathetic_ — but _alas_ , Schlatt is _dead_ , he is _alone_ , and the castle is _destroyed_ , leaving Quackity to a small underwater cobblestone cave, sharply reminding him of ~~_home_~~. 

“Ah, _shit_! _You_ of all people _would_ pick a base underwater!” A familiar voice sounds throughout the hall and Quackity tenses. He feels like he can’t _breathe_ , and for what seems like forever, the man rounds the hall and steps in, revealing his tall, yet _soaked_ , form. “ _Q_. . .” He breathes. 

The world around him spirals and Quackity can’t stop the sudden shakiness radiating throughout his limbs. “ _Father_?” His mouth moves, but he can’t hear himself speak as the blood rushes through his ears. “Why are. . . _How_ did you. . .?” His chest is moving _up_ and _down_ , **_up and down,_** and yet he still feels like he can’t _breathe_. 

In a flash, his father is kneeling before him, concern smeared across his face. He places a hand on Quackity’s knee, coaxing him to take deep breaths, “ _in and out, in and out._ ” It takes a moment for him to regain his bearings, but when he does, he flushes red, twisting his knee away from the _burning_ , **_burning_** , ~~**_burning_ **~~ **** grasp of his father’s palm. 

Staring at the floor, he analyzes the cracks before asking, “How did you find me?” 

Sam exhales and shoves his hands into his pockets, and Quackity watches his legs extend and his feet shuffle away. Glancing up, he watches his father stare at the wall, surely observing the propaganda littering the space. A hot rush of shame washes over him. 

“Tubbo told me. Really, you should get better friends. Kid is the president of this dump and is scared of lil ol’ _me_.” Sam lets out a bubbly laugh, cocking his head back to smile. His eyes rake over his son’s form for just a moment before turning back to the wall. 

“ _Tubbo_ . . .” Quackity lets out an irritated exhale and rubs his arm absentmindedly, ignoring the flash of pain that erupts following. “Then. . . you _wanted_ to see me?” He tries to sound nonchalant, but Quackity can’t help the surge of hope that pours within him at the thought of his father traveling all this way just to see _him_. The last the two had spoken was in the middle of a broken battlefield, and despite the portrayal of _war_ in TV shows, you don’t really get much time to speak during. 

Sam frowns, mulling over his son’s words. Turning, he faces the boy, watching his hunched over form rub his feet over the floor. “Of course I wanted to see you, Q. Need I remind you that you’re the one who absolutely refused to leave the _Great City of_ _L’Manberg_!” The last part is a tease and Sam flails his hands in a dramatic manner, but Quackity still feels the guilt that chews through him at his father’s words. 

It was _true_. During the election, his visits home had slimmed. His _one_ and _only_ priority was winning the election, and when he had _succeeded_ , nothing else crossed his mind. Then, everything had piled on top of each other and Quackity felt like he was _drowning_. It started off with the exile, then Schlatt’s untimely loss during the war, then Mexican L’Manberg’s destruction, and ended with Techno’s failed execution. There was no time. . . and Schlatt had instilled in him from the very beginning that time was of the essence, and a fickle thing it is. 

Quackity was interrupted from his thoughts by fingers clasping around his wrist, pulling his arm up with a light tug. “ _Ow_! What are you—?” 

“You’re bleeding through your bandages.” Sam clicks his tongue and rolls his arms over, raking his eyes over the area furiously. “You noticed it, _why_ didn’t you change them?” 

Quackity twists his arm, ignoring the sharp pain that cracks within his wrist, and attempts to wiggle himself free to no avail. “What’s the _point_? It’s just going to keep _bleeding_.” He hisses. 

“So, what, you’re just going to _keep_ bleeding? And maybe let it get infected?” His father scoffs and shakes his head. He lets go of Quackity’s arm for just a moment to shuffle through his belongings, pulling out a bottle of disinfectant along with clean bandages. “Move _once_ and I’ll bring you straight to Technoblade and let him finish you off.” The threat is all bark and no bite, but Quackity stills nonetheless, allowing his father to work peacefully on his injuries. 

Grimacing, Quackity watches the man pull his bandages off slowly, pouring disinfectant along the wounds scattered across his arm. The gashes are _deep_ and _irritated_ and covered in _dirt_ and Quackity pretends to not see his father’s annoyed look that screams, “ _really?_ ”. Surrounding the area are dark bruises coating his skin, mimicking the ones wrapped around his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam observes the gash along his son’s lip critically. 

“What happened to your lip?” Sam questions after moments of silence, gently working his fingers around the wounds. 

“What do you _think_?” Sam’s face sours at the tone and Quackity mumbles an apology, bringing his unoccupied hand to press lightly on the puncture. Blood immediately oozes out, but he catches it quick enough with his fingers, mistakenly smearing it across his face. “We were fighting— _obviously_ , and he caught me off guard with an iron pickaxe.” Quackity furrows his brows and curls his fingers around the arm of the chair. “Can you _believe_ it? A _Netherite_ pickaxe versus an iron one. . . and the latter won.” 

Sam only hums, wrapping the bandages around his arm tightly. “ _He_ was prepared and _you_ weren’t.” 

Quackity stiffens at the comment, his mind reeling with anger and. . . _embarrassment_. He knows it's true, his mind has been screaming it at him since he stumbled back to the base _alone._ He had been wallowing in the words— the self-deprecation wrapping around him like a coil, tightening and squeezing until he couldn’t _breathe_. But, it doesn’t hurt any less hearing the words fall from his father’s mouth, especially knowing the truth behind the _cold_ words— except, Quackity _was_ prepared. He had _prepared_ for _months_ and **_months_** and ~~**_months_**~~ , training until the callouses of his hands burst open and warm blood trickled down his palms. Or the posters plastered around L’Manberg or _even_ the countless hours spent within this _hellhole_ of a base with his team, all hovered over a map, determining the best path to take. 

“I _did_ prepare.” He says softly. “He was just better than me.” 

“Yeah.” His father agrees, finishing up the last of his dressings. “He was.” And with that and a _snip!_ , Sam is finished with the last of his wraps. Grunting, he stands, lifting his arms over his head and stretches before looking down at his son’s still form. “Come on, take me to your house. You should get some rest and we can go around L’Manberg tomorrow, yeah? Finally show me all the things you’ve been begging to since before the election.” 

“You’re _staying_?” Quackity looks up with an incredulous look. “Why?” 

Sam frowns and puts his hands on his hips. There’s a playful glint intertwined within his eyes, however, and there’s the faintest hint of a smile before he masks it. “Oh, so you can’t come see _me_ for months and I suddenly can't come see _you,_ either? I think you just don’t want to see your old man anymore.” He feigns a wounded look, placing his hand over his heart. 

Quackity scoffs and rolls his eyes, leaning his head on his hand with a tired look. “I didn’t say that, _dumbass_. You know I want you to stay. You _know_ I’ve just been—” Suddenly, he furrows his brows and sits up straight, a genuine look spreading across his face. Sam takes note of the look of nervousness within his eyes. “I’m. . . really sorry, dad. I never meant to abandon you, I just,” he flails his arms up in exasperation. “ _Just_ . . . everything started piling on top of everything— _even now_ — and I feel like I have _nothing_ else.” 

The room is silent after that. Softly, Sam’s feet pad across the floor, coming to a stop directly in front of his son. With a swift movement, he’s leaning down, ruffling his fingers through Quackity’s messy hair. “Q, I forgive you, alright? I saw firsthand the events that occurred. You don’t have to apologize to me, son.” With a smile, he repeats. “Now, walk around L’Manberg _tomorrow_ , rest _now_. Is your house far from here?” 

Quackity smiles bashfully, kicking his feet against the ground. “Well. . . it kind of got destroyed. It wasn’t _my_ fault! Talk to _Dream_!” He says hurriedly at Sam’s dark expression. He gestures abashedly to his surroundings and pats his chair lightly. “This is my home now, and this is my new _bed_! Really comfy, actually, if you just ignore the castrated pig on the walls.” 

Sam’s eye twitches at the statement. Grumbling, he treks over to his bag, carelessly thrown near the entrance of the cave. He strides back, glaring at the innocent, doe-eyed boy in the chair, and tosses down two sleeping bags. He shuffles through the bag for a second before throwing a shirt and shorts across the room, hitting his son square in the face. 

“Deserved.” He says before his son can object. “You’re lucky I have these,” he gestures to the sleeping bags. “or _you_ would be sleeping on this stone-cold floor and _I’d_ be uncomfortably _comfortable_ in that chair.” 

Quackity nods quickly and lifts his shirt over his head, revealing a countless number of bruises and scrapes along his chest. Sam turns his head, a dull ache in his chest as he focuses on setting up their beds for the night. It doesn’t take long for the father-son duo to shuffle into their sleeping bags, torches out and the sounds of the waterfall outside falling breaking the silence. 

“ _Love you, dad_.” Quackity whispers, moving around in his bag before settling on his side. “ _Thank you_.” 

Sam doesn’t reply as he stares at the ceiling, hands crossed over his chest. There’s an immense feeling of guilt crawling up through his chest. His son _trusts_ him— allowed him to clean up his wounds, allowed him to _stay_ , allowed him to give him a place to rest, and will _happily_ show him around L’Manberg tomorrow morning without an inkling of an idea as to his father’s motives. He can’t help but to think that he’s no different than _Dream_ — and maybe not so different from the _monster_ his son has been made out to be. He blanches at the thought. 

Sam turns onto his side, his back facing Quackity. With a shudder and an exhale, he closes his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh, looks like this is going to be a longer story than i originally intended on. i'm actually really enjoying writing this so far, it's been really inspiring and there isn't enough dsmp!quackity angst out there.
> 
> right now, i've got two potential endings in the works. if i go with the second, angstier one, this fic will be longer. if i go with the first, "happy ending" style one, it will be shorter. let me know what you guys think!
> 
> (lmaooo that moment when ur a spy sent onto ur son by his enemy)

**Author's Note:**

> with how sam is constantly treating quackity like an "adoptive pixel son", i thought this would be a nice twist to the story. 
> 
> quackity's character just seems so unguided and brash that i was like, "hmm... yes... villain!quackity", especially with the latest turn of events with his brawl with techno. i don't necessarily think his character is weak, just goal-oriented. he's very calculated in what he does, even if it doesn't get him anywhere. 
> 
> not sure how many chapters there will be, but i'm super excited to be writing this! there's not enough dreamsmp!quackity angst, so i hope you guys enjoy this as much as i do!


End file.
